The Game of Stone
by Boticelli Puzzle
Summary: What with international conferences, death and possible anti-Semitism, each doctor has to try find and remember what they believe in. SEQUEL TO "PILLS, SHOTS AND A BROKEN PIANO." House/Wilson slash, Chase/Cameron, Chase/OC. AU.
1. Painting

A/N: Here it is. The sequel to "Pills, Shots and a Broken Piano" – "The Game of Stone." Please note that this one may have some glaring inaccuracies when it comes to Australia as I've never been and am relying on research and second-hand information. It's pre-"House's Head" and "Wilson's Heart", of course, so out of the arc it's AU.

I'm hoping to tie up quite a few loose ends with this fic. Enjoy!

GHXJW

"I promise," he said. Her last sigh had echoed some time ago, but he felt the need to reaffirm, to give her soul some solace.

It was starting to rain now, rather heavily, with big drops splattering across the windows, paints on a Jackson Pollock canvas, then sliding slowly down to leave a watery trail in their wake. Every invisible drop made a constant noise, like someone smoothing out the kinks in a square of Saran wrap. Gray-white fog tinged the bottom of the windows with opacity, spreading upwards like ivy. The sky was draped with clouds the color of cobalt gunmetal, quiet and heavy.

Wilson sat on the chair, almost shying away from the corpse. In the gray light, she was even more beautiful than she had been under the harsh operating lights, features softened to charcoal. At the same time, there was an unnatural stillness in the room, punctuated only by the machines beeping, that made her frozen figure eerie. He'd seen corpses before, hundreds of them, and the same chill scurried in his veins after every time.

He couldn't bring himself to look away. She almost looked asleep. Her chestnut hair curled softly over her neck, over the bright gold pendant. Remembering that small detail, Wilson forgot his chills and stepped up to the corpse. Against the drab ashen backdrop of her skin, it sparkled with an artificial life.

_Anti-Semitism in New Jersey…?_ House's voice echoed in his head. The natural optimist in Wilson told him that House was misanthropic and hated everybody, and thus assumed that everyone else was the same. Reason told him that 95 percent of the time, House was right.

The nurse had taken away the baby, but chances of survival were slated at roughly 0. _Stop with the numbers, House. Stop. Stop. _The drops splattered indolently, leaving Wilson to sit there in the muted rush, holding Rachel Weisman's dead hand.

GHXJW

"Aw, you look so maternal," House cooed, limping into the special, isolated ICU room the Weisman woman's baby had been placed in. Pain was flaring in his leg worse than usual; it always did in the rain.

"Yeah. Sticking needles into babies is what every mother's first instinct is, right?" Rurigawa replied, holding the baby carefully.

"Because that's obviously what you're doing," House retorted. "It's obvious by the way you're _cradling _it." This infarction _had_ to be eating him from inside, _God_ that hurt like a –

Rurigawa bristled. "So I'm holding the baby. And so what?"

"Nothing." It was the most infuriating of House's replies, the 'nothing' loaded with implications of everything, but Rurigawa refused to rise to the bait. House suddenly felt the need to goad him, to get him infuriated and yet uncomfortably helpless. He shouldn't look so _happy_, so _content_ just to be holding a dead woman's baby – he shouldn't feel such happiness doing this job –

"How's Chase?" House asked, neutral and innocent.

His lips curled in a victorious smile when Rurigawa's shoulders stiffened. "No clue. You should ask him," he answered, voice carefully controlled.

House leaned back, sat on the lab table. "What did you see in him, anyway?" Was the pain subsiding? Maybe. He couldn't quite tell. The sadistic pleasure was making him feel a little happier, though.

"Why do you care?" Rurigawa was putting the baby down, House noted with satisfaction. And taking out the needles.

"I'm conducting a study on why people do stupid things," House said bitingly. "I want to know what made you fall for him."

Rurigawa sighed and pushed his hair back from his eyes, snapped on latex gloves. "I'm not sure. At first, it was just the looks, I guess."

"He does have _great _hair," House conceded, sarcasm covering his surprise that Rurigawa was actually confiding in him.

With a slight smile, he continued. "But then, there are other things. He's very caring, almost slightly adoring. He's…passionate. He cares. Of course, he's a little presumptuous. Arrogant. But who isn't, right?"

The words were measured. House narrowed his eyes. "You're a complete attention whore," he observed.

"How do you figure this?" Rurigawa rearranged the needles, then carefully turned the baby over, holding it off the table with one arm while the other disinfected a patch on its rear.

"You've set up an equation: You cannot survive without Chase, and Chase cannot survive without happiness. Therefore, in order to sustain Chase and thus your own happiness, you've cut yourself out and put Cameron in because that's what you think will make him happy. The thing is…you've left out the major part of the equation where the only way Chase can make you happy is by being yours. Any other form just causes you pain. You've made your happiness the most minor part of the equations, which is totally anomalous of human nature. So why would you pretend that your own happiness isn't important unless you wanted people to _notice_ that you thought your own happiness was insignificant and thus pity you?" House rattled off discerningly.

Rurigawa smiled ruefully. "And the great House strikes again. If you say 'happy' or 'happiness' again, I think you'll have a grand total of fifty times you've ever said it in your life, congratulations, you win. Hold this, don't drop it or I'll stab you too." He held out a syringe. The baby whined softly.

"Now you're just a dominatrix. I like it." House took the syringe grudgingly, sat back down.

"You always had a soft spot for pain," Rurigawa quipped. "All right. Your turn. How are things going with Wilson?" House didn't answer, but drew in a deep breath, twirled his cane. "That good, eh?" Rurigawa pressed with a grin. He took the syringe from between House's fingers and positioned it carefully. The sight of the needle sliding into flesh had always been bizarrely fascinating to House; he watched it whilst studiously ignoring the question. The needle came out, and Rurigawa tossed it into the aluminum bin at his feet. "You don't have to answer, House," he said quietly. "Just one request…"

"Please don't break his heart? Please don't hurt him?" House asked sardonically.

Rurigawa coughed awkwardly. "Erm, no…actually, please make sure you don't spill coffee all over the floor while you guys make out at work."

"Aww. Don't you like to see the evidence of our love?"

"Not all over the carpet and chairs, no."

"You're such a girl."

Cuddy slid open the door smoothly. "Hi, Rurigawa. Immunizations done?"

He checked the chart. "Just about, then it's back into the crib."

She nodded briskly. "House, go see Wilson."

"I promise I didn't hurt his feelings or break his toys," House said bleakly.

"I know. But there's something bothering him."

GHXJW

"Wilson! You're looking fresh as a daisy, my love," House yelled upon entry.

"Afternoon, House," Wilson droned back tepidly.

"What crawled up your ass? Well, aside from the obvious." He flopped down on the couch, twirling his cane and almost toppling Wilson's coffee.

"Not in the mood," Wilson growled, clutching the mug.

"I'll just sit here until you decide talk, then," House said simply, and continued to twirl his cane. Wilson moved the coffee and tried to focus on his paperwork, rearranging some files. There were cases on the left, head of department paperwork in the center, and clinic files on the right, memos and lewd notes from House scattered in between.

"WHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEOOOOOOOHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"

"House," Wilson warned, as House had begun to imitate a siren, at about twice the decibel level.

"Talk," House countered. Wilson sighed, ears still ringing.

Something that Wilson had discovered was that in this newfound relationship, House was about a hundred times more willing to talk about things, for better or for worse. Personally, Wilson didn't want to admit that he thought House might be right. He also didn't want to play any more cagy games with House – he wanted to finally settle, do something right. Telling House he might be right would be like setting gasoline on fire: House would keep burning things in his path until he reached the ashes of truth. What the truth might be was too terrible for Wilson to want to contemplate. Did the fact that he was actually considering it mean he was thinking more like that? 'Prolonged exposure to Gregory House may result in extreme pessimism and the ability to believe the absolute worst in _everyone_.'

House started to make the siren noise again. "WHEEEEEEEEEE – !"

"Fine!" Wilson shouted against the screaming noise. "Rachel Weisman died this morning." Instant silence.

"So?" House feigned indifference, but the momentary twitch of his eyebrow downward showed genuine concern. "Did you do the autopsy?"

"No," Wilson said, carefully patient. "Don't you want to do it?"

"Why would I want to do it?" House asked sensibly.

"To discover the cause of death," Wilson said.

"Overt stress placed on the body due to brutal injuries," House answered matter-of-factly. "Simple."

Wilson sighed irritably. "You know exactly what I mean. You want to know what caused the injuries."

"Appealing to my natural curiosity will get you nowhere, Wilson," House replied brusquely.

"Appealing to your penis did me good," Wilson said nonchalantly, eyeing House under guise of writing prescriptions. "Figured it might work. Anyway. Do you need more Vicodin, while I'm at it?" There was a long silence in which Wilson knew he was being heavily scrutinized by a pair of sharp blue eyes, and had to resist the temptation to look up. He let the stare itch for a while. "House? Do you need more – "

"I'll do it," House interrupted firmly.

"What?" Inside, he was cheering.

"The autopsy," House snapped, annoyed at having lost. "And I'm going to need twenty bottles of Vicodin."

Wilson nodded sagely until House had finished sweeping dramatically out of the room.


	2. Flying

A/N: I truly, deeply apologize. I have no excuse for being a crappy updater.

GHXJW

Wilson watched House perform the autopsy later that day. He admired the dexterity of House's hands, the slim fingers that could wind their way equally skillfully across a piano keyboard or around a syringe, could make Wilson come and scream and then tangle in sleepy comfort in his hair. House's mouth was taut with concentration, eyes squinted and focus. Three smooth cuts, slicing Rachel Weisman open.

Rain, tapping incessantly.

Sitting hunched in the cold corner of the room, Wilson's thoughts turned to the evening. Maybe they'd go home, open a nice vintage Bordeaux. Maybe Wilson would cook something exquisite. Or maybe they'd just sit in silence, munching takeout quietly. It was hard to read House, even knowing him as Wilson did. Some days he would be unexpectedly playful, jumping on Wilson when he got home late. Some days he'd use the sex to forget – pain, fear, doubt. He'd banish it with his hands and lips, searching for something Wilson wasn't sure he had. But for once, Wilson wasn't thinking about the future, content to live in the moment. For once.

They left early, Wilson waiting impatiently outside House's office as House waved and ranted and goaded Trent and Parker about having to stay, Rurigawa packing up his things wordlessly, only casting a glower in House's direction once or twice. Wilson's lips quirked up at the image, it was so almost _domestic_, the tacit understanding between the four of them that House was a genius yet an idiot, and that they would never fully understand him. It wasn't despair at House's faults but acceptance.

GHXJW

"Right. And a week's worth of everything – shirts, ties…two jackets? House? Do you think two jackets is enough?" He turned to House, who was sitting on the bed, watching Wilson aimlessly.

"Yeah," he said blandly. Wilson scowled. House was thinking. He looked back at his neat piles of clothing – white shirts, seven ties rolled up neatly, four pairs of sharply creased pants. There was the soft felt bag with his shoes in it, the folded undershirts and underwear, the balled up socks, all spread out in a strangely rigid matrix of clothing. "House. Did you pack?"

House looked up from the floor, squinted. "Yes?"

"I just hope you know. Two hours. We leave."

"You can go back in time? I could have sworn I wasn't six, but you're such a miracle worker, Wilson."

Wilson sighed and left the room for a glass of water. It was still raining. He caught sight of House's new black suitcase sitting solemnly by the door, almost keeping vigil. _Who's the slacker now?_ it seemed to ask.

Yeah, Wilson. Who's the slacker now? Goading and derisive. Wilson…Wilson left a lot of things up to House nowadays. The big things. He let House come to him – he'd learned in the past seven months or so that their bond was stronger than he'd ever cared to test. He'd also discovered that House _could_ crawl, and sometimes there was more than a little vindictive pleasure in letting him beg. In teasing, and skipping away and letting House go the rest of the way. He'd never had this option before, the option of flying.

GHXJW

He snapped the phone shut. Chase had left some sort of stupid message about the flight. Why couldn't Cuddy couldn't call him herself? Frankly speaking, seeing Chase in brief moments was terrible enough. They'd had three minutes of agony where they found themselves in the same elevator. The awkwardness was more than he could bear, really.

Chase's voice. _So, er, Rurigawa. Terminal one at four, yeah? See you then._ Australian drawl, mellowed by the years in the States.

He was tossing everything into sloppy piles. The only things in any semblance of properly folded were his jackets – he figured if he didn't have time to press at the hotel, he could throw a nice jacket over it all and hope no-one looked too closely.

Going back. Should be fun. He'd never anticipated he'd go back like this, on a business trip. He hadn't called his mother yet – he had nothing against seeing her, he just had something against her seeing House. And Chase. Because she could read him like no one else fucking could. She would see it, and he didn't know what he would do then. He was still coming to terms with it himself. Was he gay? Was it just a fling? What was love?

He sank to the bed, carefully avoiding his mess. Who was he, really? Going back would mean confronting his identity, fluent in English, fluent in Japanese – almost two separate beings contained in one. The world he lived in, New Jersey, House, Princeton-Plainsboro, _Chase_, was so different from the world he was to inherit: Tokyo in all its winding glory, the quiet culture, the entire separateness of Japan from the world. Was he finished packing yet?

He really should stop thinking about Chase.

GHXJW

There were a few last things she needed to tie up at the hospital, and then she could go home and recheck her suitcase. In case she'd missed anything, you know. Just in case.

_Neurotic. OCD. Uptight. _The words echoed in her mind, like a reprimand. _Relax, Lisa._ But this conference; this conference was the breakthrough the hospital had been looking for. It would give them the credibility of Johns Hopkins or UCLA, rocket them up to international status.

At least, she hoped so. She'd read the file back-to-front – this thing was just going to be an open discussion forum about the various hospitals in attendance, about the doctors, about medicine in it's essence. About truly helping people, about why she'd become a doctor in the first place. A place where politics, office and otherwise, didn't cloud people's vision, a place where they could all come and learn as equals.

At least, she hoped so.

She hoped that perhaps Wilson's charm could detract from House's prickliness, that Rurigawa's and Chase's local experience would appeal to the people with money. She hoped that her own professional attitude would mask the various lawsuits (House), and that House's impressive track record would speak for itself.

She hoped the Weisman girl's baby made it, that small limp thing with the gray skin and slack mouth. Cameron and Parker were on rotation to keep an eye on the baby, with nurses on 5-hour shifts. Constant vigilance. What was the kid's name? She flipped open the well-worn file; frowned at the correction. Where it had been previously written in the cold block letters (UKNOWN) WEISMAN, there was a strikethrough and a scribble in Wilson's handwriting: _Sarah. _Why? Ex-girlfriend? She hoped not. She'd have to ask him about that on the plane.

Had she packed tissues? And what about her keys?

God, she should go home. It was twelve-thirty already. Sighing, she put the file down, picked up her bag, and left, eyes on the sky.


End file.
